


A Lesson In Seduction

by vix_spes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fingerfucking, First Time, Friendship, M/M, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft discovers that seducing John Watson isn’t as simple as he thought ... particularly if he wants more than a casual fling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at [sherlockbbc_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com): I’d like to see a Mycroft who knows he’s a good-looking man (not boastful, quietly confident). He might like to watch his weight but he’ll also indulge when the mood takes him. It really is most embarrassing that Sherlock can’t conceive of any wittier jibes to throw at him. And I’d like quietly confident Mycroft to seduce the fuck out of John with his charm and good looks! (Bonus points if you fit in any fingering or rimming. Bonus bonus points if it’s more than a casual fling.)

Mycroft resisted the overwhelming desire to roll his eyes as Sherlock made yet another query as to whether he was putting on weight again. He felt rather irritated as he replied that he was in fact losing it, for what seemed to be the millionth time. It really did get quite tiresome being teased about the same thing over and over again and besides, it was rather childish. For all his intelligence could Sherlock really not come up with anything more original? The people that he worked with were so dull and insipid that he was ravenous for some intelligent conversation or witty remarks. With Sherlock being of equal intelligence he had had high hopes of his little brother but had been sorely disappointed. Then again, he shouldn’t really be too surprised; his relationship with Sherlock had deteriorated into childish bickering years ago and he had little to no hope of it ever becoming more than that. The infuriating thing was that he was rather fond of his younger brother, he always had been, and he missed the closeness that they had once shared before their relationship had changed irreparably.  
  
He had hoped that things were going to change following Sherlock’s run in with Moriarty, particularly after he’d received a panicked phone call from Sherlock demanding that Mycroft do something. It had transpired that, in saving Sherlock’s life when the bomb exploded, John Watson had been seriously injured and, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, being flatmates meant absolutely nothing to the nurses and doctors at the hospital; only family members or partners were allowed in the room. The doctor’s actions had brought him the respect and admiration of the Yarders while earning himself Mycroft’s eternal gratitude. It had also warranted John a second glance as something more than simply Sherlock’s flatmate.  
  
Mycroft had been impressed by Dr. John H. Watson the first time they had met and the fact that John had killed that Jefferson Hope thus saving Sherlock from doing something that was potentially fatal, less than 48 hours after meeting Sherlock, had ensured that John was worthy of Mycroft’s notice. That had been when John had been added to Sherlock’s surveillance and their security status received. As time had passed, Mycroft had found his attention drawn to the doctor when he watched the CCTV feeds of Sherlock’s antics. That applied even more in the aftermath of Moriarty. It had only been a scant two weeks since John had been released from hospital.  
  
“Where is the good doctor tonight?”  
  
Sherlock sniffed before playing another horrendous chord on his violin. Honestly, the man had a beautiful (and expensive) instrument yet he played it like a three year old beginner. “He had a date with whatever her name is. I’m not expecting him back tonight.”  
  
He had barely finished his sentence when they heard the defeated tread of footsteps on the stairs and when he entered John went straight into the kitchen.  
  
“John? I was expecting you to stay at Sarah’s.”  
  
“Well, Sarah dumped me and to top it all off I lost my job at the clinic so no ... not tonight Sherlock, I’m not in the mood. We can discuss this tomorrow. Please just leave it, I’m begging you. Night Sherlock, Mycroft.”

 

  
(~*~)

  
Once he’d completed his evening ablutions, changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed, John couldn’t help but replay the scene in the restaurant over and over again. It wasn’t exactly conducive to sleep but he was still somewhat shocked by Sarah’s actions, even though he knew he shouldn’t be.

 

  
_***FLASHBACK***_   


  
_He had known that something was up as soon as Sarah had said that she would meet him at the restaurant and that there was no need for him to come and pick her up. Things had been strained between them ever since John had been kidnapped by Moriarty’s thugs and the aftermath of their showdown. To be honest, he was surprised that this hadn’t come sooner. The thing was, he wasn’t totally convinced that this was the best time to inform him of this decision; it would have hurt less if she had done it while he had still been in hospital. If it had been done that way then maybe he wouldn’t have got his hopes up that maybe this could go somewhere, become something. At the very least, he’d been on considerable amounts of morphine that could have temporarily dulled the pain._   
  
_If he was honest with himself, truly honest, deep down he had been expecting this for a long time. He had been thoroughly taken aback when Sarah had agreed to go out with him again after being kidnapped and at risk of death from Chinese smugglers. Then there had been Sherlock to take into consideration. At a rough guess, Sherlock had interrupted one out of every two dates in person and when he hadn’t turned up in person he had bombarded John with texts or even phone calls when John had refused to answer the texts. It was like having an incredibly clingy, possessive child. There really was no wonder that Sarah had given him the heave ho; he was a discharged army doctor and surgeon with a buggered shoulder, an occasional psychosomatic limp, a self-proclaimed sociopathic flatmate and a disturbing predilection for danger who was struggling to hold down a job as a locum GP. Even he’d dump himself. They made it through two uncomfortable courses before Sarah had uttered the fateful words._   
  
_“Look John, I’m really sorry but this isn’t going to work. I think we should split up before we get too involved and too hurt by this.”_   
  
_“Too involved?” John struggled to keep his tone calm. “For God’s sake Sarah, I’m already involved.”_   
  
_“And I’m sorry but I can’t do this; it’s not what I want from a relationship. It’s apparent that you love this running about the city solving crimes thing that you and Sherlock have and you’re not going to give it up for anything or anyone; you love it too much. You love Sherlock as well. Oh I know that you’re not in love with him but you come as a package deal; Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Whoever gets involved with you has to accept that and I can’t. God, we’d barely had our first date and we were both kidnapped and then you were kidnapped again and strapped in a vest of semtex. You were in hospital for nearly three weeks and you’re still recovering now. It’s too much John, I’m sorry, I really am sorry.”_   
  
_“It’s fine Sarah, it’s all fine. I suppose that I understand,” John smiled although it was obviously strained._   
  
_“At least I still have a job ...” he trailed off as he saw Sarah’s face. “Except I don’t have a job anymore do I?”_   
  
_“Look, I’m not trying to be vindictive John, I’m really not. You’re a great guy and I hope that we can keep in touch. It’s just that you’re not suitable for the job at the surgery; you’re a fantastic doctor but you were overqualified from the start and it’s not your priority, it’s not enough for you.”_   
  
_“There’s not a lot that I can say to that.”_   
  
_John signalled for the waiter and asked for the bill; there was no point staying for dessert now. He paid the bill and stood up from the table, Sarah standing as well._   
  
_“Goodbye Sarah.”_   
  
_“Bye John, I’m truly sorry about everything.”_   
  
_John simply kissed her on the cheek and walked out of the restaurant. There was nothing she could say now that would change anything._

 

  
_***END FLASHBACK***_   


  
~*~

  
Mycroft relaxed into the soft leather sofa that occupied a significant portion of his book-lined office at home; he maintained that if he had to work at home then he was going to do so in comfort. His job never stopped, there was no such thing as bank holidays or holidays full stop and weekends had ceased to exist years ago but there were times when it was quieter. It tended to be a lot quieter when Sherlock had crimes to occupy himself with, or when he had been at the hospital in the aftermath of the pool incident. While Sherlock had been quiet in hospital and then when he had been discharged yet John was still in hospital, there had been more work for Mycroft. When he hadn’t been at the hospital, he had been gathering together as much information as he could on Moriarty and compiling it into four files; one copy would go to MI5, one to MI6, one to Sherlock and the last he would keep for himself. Unknown to Sherlock, he had spoken to the nurses at the private hospital he had had the two of them admitted to and requested that he was kept up to date with the details of both men’s recovery.  
  
Mycroft had found himself rather captivated by Sherlock’s flatmate. The man had intrigued him at first; so loyal to Sherlock despite the fact that they barely even knew each other. More than simply intriguing Mycroft, John had impressed him. It took strength of character to turn down an unnamed amount of money when you were practically broke and unemployed. While Mycroft had been meeting with the man himself, A was busy organising a more in-depth background check for one Dr. John H. Watson. As he was leaving his office that evening, his ever-capable assistant had handed him a thick file full of documents, records and photographs on his little brother’s new flatmate.  
  
He started with the loose documents, putting the photographs aside temporarily. There was a lot of paperwork to go through, more than he had expected for the amount of time A had been given but if there was one thing he had learnt, that was never to underestimate his assistant. She had done a thorough job; medical records, university transcripts and references, his sign-up papers for the RAMC, reports from his superior officers alongside letters of commendation, medical discharge papers, the letter stating that he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Order for service under fire in addition to the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan that all members of the Forces received if they were deployed andr reports from that useless psychologist he was seeing. All of it simply confirmed what had been apparent to Mycroft at their little meeting; despite his unremarkable appearance, John Watson was one of the most remarkable men that Mycroft had had the pleasure to meet.  
  
Once he’d read the file from cover to cover, he turned his attention to the photographs. A had done a superlative job here as well. The photos ranged from snapshots of John in his late teens, as a student through to the official graduation photo then his passing out parade at Sandhurst, candid shots in the desert and finally surveillance shots taken by Mycroft’s men. He noted with interest that John hadn’t changed much either in shape or size from the time that he went to university to the present time and also that John had owned the black and white striped jumper during his student days. Cursing his weakness, two of the photos didn’t make it back into the file, instead finding their way into Mycroft’s desk at home. One was of a much younger John, he presumed during his student years playing rugby for Blackheath. It was a candid shot taken by a press photographer that had then appeared in a local newspaper. In the photo, John was laughing and smiling brightly, his hair ruffled and he was completely and utterly streaked with mud, the white of his shorts (tiny shorts that clung to a ridiculously pert bum, Mycroft’s mind supplied unhelpfully) almost completely obliterated. What struck Mycroft the most was how carefree and happy John looked. This was in direct contrast to the other photo that Mycroft kept. This one was a more formal portrait; John wearing his formal RAMC uniform. This was John the soldier rather than John the doctor. Mycroft assumed that it was taken before he went out to Afghanistan because this John doesn’t have the same slightly care-worn look that the John he knows now has. He’s ridiculously attractive as well, the gold on the uniform highlighting the hints of gold in his hair and the dark colour of the uniform making his eyes seem impossibly blue. There was still a flash of mischievous laughter in those blue orbs despite the formal setting, not as well-hidden as it was now. Rather unconsciously, Mycroft found himself pondering John’s appeal. His wasn’t an obvious attractiveness, there was nothing flashy or overt about him and he was more likely to be labelled as cute or even adorable rather than handsome. He was the kind of person that you wouldn’t look at twice when you passed him in the street yet Mycroft was captivated by him.  
  
Three months down the line from Sherlock and John’s encounter with Moriarty, Mycroft couldn’t help but look at those same photographs with more than a hint of regret. He told himself that he was being overly sentimental but as Mummy had always said, he was the romantic out of Sherlock and himself despite the nature of his work. Since Sherlock and John had been released from hospital, Mycroft had found and had manufactured reasons for him to visit Baker Street. He was more than aware that he was infuriating Sherlock, revelling slightly in that knowledge, but it was John that he was going to visit. Even if John was unaware that he was the reason for Mycroft’s visits.  
  
Mycroft had found himself increasingly preoccupied with Sherlock’s flatmate, particularly once John found himself a new job and seemed to get a sense of purpose back. His thoughts about John weren’t distracting him from his job but it was becoming a dangerously run thing. Particularly once he had seen the CCTV footage of John while he was working one of his shifts at the hospital. When John had been working at the surgery, he had worn simple but smart trousers and those hideous checked shirts, although Mycroft had found the large knitted jumpers rather inexplicably adorable. His new job at the hospital was a completely different matter. He still wore the trousers and hideous shirt combinations (Mycroft really would have to do something about those, they really were horrific) but on other occasions he would wear a pair of worn-in jeans that clung to thighs that were still fairly toned from running around London after Sherlock. The real revelation was the scrubs. Mycroft had never paid any attention to them before, a mere insignificant detail, items of clothing necessary to prevent contamination during surgery. That was before he had seen CCTV footage of John Watson wearing the ridiculous items of clothing. The strange blue-green of the scrubs highlighted the blue of John’s eyes and the slight golden tan that his skin seemed to retain despite the fact that it had been months since he had left Afghanistan. The biggest advantage of the scrubs though came when John turned, presenting his back to the cameras. John’s arse was the most delectable specimen that Mycroft had seen for a very long time and the scrubs showcased it’s pertness to perfection.  
  
It had come to the point where Mycroft was going to have to do something before he became too distracted and slipped up. Badly. And what better time to do it than now?

 

  
~*~

  
John found himself rather bemused when he came down the stairs, still wearing his ratty pyjamas, to discover Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s rarely used chair, a steaming cup of tea sat on the coffee table in front of him.  
  
“Good morning John. There’s tea in the pot that should be at just the right temperature to drink. Rest assured that it isn’t contaminated; I took the liberty of borrowing the tea pot from Mrs Hudson.”  
  
John found himself thinking that this entire situation was far too surreal, even rubbing his eyes to check that it wasn’t a dream, completely unaware that Mycroft found the action utterly adorable. There was no way that he was going to be able to cope with this without his first cup of tea of the day so he went into the kitchen and poured tea into a mug that a) looked relatively clean and b) didn’t smell as though it had been used for an experiment recently. Knowing that he couldn’t put it off any longer he moved back into the living room, taking his usual chair opposite the one that Mycroft was currently occupying. The small part of his brain that was currently wide-awake and functional noted that Sherlock wasn’t in his usual place sprawled all over the couch before remembering that they had solved the case late yesterday afternoon and that Sherlock had collapsed into a deep sleep after John had forced Chinese down his throat and probably wouldn’t be up for another hour. That meant that it was up to John to entertain Mycroft as they could hardly sit in silence for an hour. If he was going to make coherent conversation he needed caffeine. Once he’d swallowed half the mug, he felt as though he could make a passable attempt at conversation but it was probably best to finish the rest of his tea first.  
  
“I’m afraid that Sherlock’s not going to be awake for awhile yet Mycroft. He solved a case yesterday so he’s catching up on his sleep.”  
  
“Then it’s a good job that it was you I came to see rather than Sherlock is it not?”  
  
“Me? What could you possibly want to talk to me about? You’re not ill are you?”  
  
“No, it’s nothing of the sort Doctor Watson. I merely wondered if I could prevail upon you to join me for dinner tonight.”  
  
“I don’t think that that’s a good idea do you Mycroft? You and Sherlock in the same room for dinner?” John was momentarily confused by the look of hurt and slight confusion on Mycroft’s face before realisation dawned and he blushed. “Oh! Erm, you mean dinner as in a date. You and me having dinner. Together. On a date.”  
  
“Precisely that.”  
  
“Hang on, let me get this straight. You’re um, you’re asking me out on a date?”  
  
“Yes, that is correct.”  
  
“As in a romantic date?”  
  
“Yes John, I am asking you out for dinner, in a restaurant, as a prospective romantic companion. If you feel that you need time to consider my offer?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What do you mean why?”  
  
“Why are you asking me out on a date?”  
  
“Why do people generally ask other people out on a date? I find you attractive as well as intelligent and personable and would like to spend more time in your company. Preferably in a situation where we wouldn’t be disturbed. If you still require time to make a decision then I am more than happy to accommodate you.”  
  
“NO!” John bit his lip, “I mean, I don’t need time to consider. I’d like to. Go for dinner I mean.”  
  
John found the small pleased smile that appeared on Mycroft’s face particularly lovely, especially when combined with the slight pink tinge that his cheeks had taken on. To his surprise, he found himself looking forward to the opportunity to see it more.  
  
“Thank you, how does tonight suit?”  
  
“Th-that would be great.” This was moving incredibly quickly, but John didn’t find himself too concerned by that despite the fact that this was Mycroft Holmes and he hadn’t been on a date with another man in years.  
  
“In that case I shall pick you up at seven pm this evening.” Mycroft rose from his chair. “No no, don’t trouble yourself John, I shall see myself out. Until this evening.”  
  
John sat in silence until a nervous giggle finally escaped him as he heard the click of the door shutting. “I have a date tonight with Mycroft Holmes.” There was a pause as something suddenly occurred to him. “Oh fuck, what the hell am I going to tell Sherlock?”  
 

 

(~*~)

  
“But I don’t understand. Why Mycroft? He’s fat and boring and stupid.”  
  
Sherlock was whining from where he was sprawled on John’s bed, not caring that John was trying to get ready for his date with Mycroft. Luckily for John, after years of playing rugby and getting changed in cramped and grotty changing rooms with at least fourteen other guys followed by years in army barracks, he had little shame left and wasn’t fazed by Sherlock’s presence in the slightest.  
  
“You don’t have to understand Sherlock; you just have to accept it. I’m going out on a date with Mycroft tonight because I want to. He’s not fat or boring and he’s far from stupid.”  
  
“You like him.” Sherlock’s voice was full of amazement. “How? Why? It’s Mycroft.” The last word was practically spat out.  
  
“Oh for God’s sake Sherlock, yes it’s Mycroft. Yes, I like him. Now will you please get out of my room so that I can finish getting ready?”  
  
Sherlock grumbled but obliged, dragging himself up off the bed and walking out of the room. Just as John had sighed in relief and turned his attention back to his wardrobe, Sherlock stuck his head back around the door frame.  
  
“A word of advice John, knowing Mycroft your usual jumper and jeans combination won’t be suitable for where he will take you. You’ll need to wear a suit although a tie probably isn’t necessary.”

 

  
(~*~)

  
Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he said that John’s clothing wouldn’t have been suitable for where Mycroft had taken him. The elder Holmes had taken him to The Ivy. The Ivy. He had been incredibly relieved that he had decided, at the very last minute, to put on one of his few (and very much hated) ties. He had felt uncomfortable at first but, to his surprise, Mycroft had swiftly put him at his ease. It had been a long time since his last date with a man; he hadn’t been on one since before he was deployed to Afghanistan. Even then, he’d certainly never been on a date like this before. Most of his dates had been while he was a student before he’d undergone basic training and had lost all hope of a love life. The dates had never been anything like this; they’d been the odd night down the pub, an even rarer night clubbing, trips to the cinema and out for dinner occasionally accompanied by a drunken fumble in somebody else’s bedroom or a hurried blowjob. That was as far as he’d ever gone with another man. The difference was that he had known what to expect from those dates, those encounters whereas he had absolutely no idea what Mycroft wanted. Did he want a relationship? Did he want someone for a convenient shag when and if the mood took him? If he did, then why had chosen now to make his move? Why not when John had first moved into Baker Street?  
  
“Stop thinking so hard John, you’ll give yourself a migraine.”  
  
John looked up, ducking his head and blushing as Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. He could have kicked himself, this was Mycroft, Sherlock’s older brother; of course he could read John like a book. It was unnerving enough in your flatmate/best friend but it was even worse when it was the man that you were on a date with. His head snapped up again as Mycroft laid a hand on top of his own where it lay on the table.  
  
“John please, just relax. I’m not going to force you into anything that you don’t want. We’re simply here for an enjoyable dinner.”  
  
Once Mycroft had ordered dinner for the two of them (John had baulked at the prices and insisted on picking the cheapest things on the menu until Mycroft had stepped in and taken over), he proceeded to relay anecdotes about his childhood, about growing up with Sherlock. John had found himself inadvertently giggling at his tales of the long-suffering elder brother and a Sherlock who had been even more audacious as a child than he was as an adult. From there they had moved onto John’s new job at Kings College Hospital, shuttling between AAU, A &E and occasionally surgery when he was needed. It was unusual but the fact that John had been a battlefield medic and a field surgeon meant that he had an aptitude for working in trauma that even some of their most brilliant doctors and surgeons didn’t have after years in the job. By the time that dessert arrived, they had reached a lull in the conversation ... neither of them quite knowing what to say.  John watched in badly disguised curiosity as the waiter set down an incredibly decadent piece of tiramisu in front of Mycroft before placing an equally decadent slice of banoffee pie in front of John. He blushed as Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his stare.  
  
“Was there something you wanted to ask me John?”  
  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that ...”  
  
“Let me guess, you were wondering why I’m having such a calorie-laden dessert when Sherlock is constantly berating me about my diet.”  
  
John smiled sheepishly. “It was that obvious huh? I’m so sorry; it’s none of my business.”  
  
“It isn’t a problem. Sherlock merely has little imagination when it comes to insults; he’s been relying on the diet jibes since he was a teenager and I’m afraid they have little to no effect anymore. He is right to an extent though; I do have a tendency to watch my weight. We can’t all have Sherlock’s metabolism and my job doesn’t rely on running around London on a daily basis. If I didn’t watch my weight, given the nature of my work and thus my tendency to be working from my office, in meetings or travelling all of the time, it would be easy for me to become overweight rather quickly. However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t indulge myself from time to time.”  
  
“What is ‘the nature of your work’? Surely you can’t just be a minor figure in the British Government.” There was a small smile on John’s face that faded as Mycroft took his time in answering.  
  
“I’m afraid that I can’t tell you, it simply isn’t possible. I do work for the British Government but that is all I am permitted to tell you.”  
  
Wanting to erase the slightly forced smile on John’s face and having been more than a little taken with John’s giggle while he had been telling childhood tales, Mycroft was determined to hear it some more. While the giggle itself was adorable, what also fascinated Mycroft was the way that John seemed younger when he laughed, the way that his eyes lit up and looked bluer. He started making little comments, much like Sherlock’s deductions, about the guests surrounding them as well as the waiting staff. Unlike Sherlock, his deductions weren’t as cruel nor as blunt and he couldn’t help but feel a little smug as John was forced to cover his mouth with his hands in an attempt to smother his giggles at one particular comment.  
  
It was that sight that had left Mycroft with the distinct feeling that he was already in deep. He didn’t think that he’d felt like this about anybody and he’d certainly never seen anything as irresistible as John Watson in that moment. He knew that it was a little bit strange to describe a man in his late-thirties as adorable but there was simply no other word that fit. Sat in his seat, hands clamped over his mouth doing virtually nothing to muffle that giggle and bright blue eyes gleaming with mischief, it was all Mycroft could do not to drag him out of the restaurant to the main desk and book a room so that he could spend the night ravishing the man. As it was, he called for the bill in an attempt to distract himself from doing exactly that.  
There was little conversation in the car on the way back to Baker Street; instead there was a comfortable silence.  Getting out of the car once it had pulled up at the kerb, John turned to speak to Mycroft, only to find himself at eyelevel with the perfect Windsor knot of Mycroft’s tie. Tilting his head upwards he noted with an inward groan that Mycroft was even taller than Sherlock, even it was by a mere inch.  
  
“Thank you for this evening Mycroft, I really enjoyed myself.”  
  
“Likewise. This has been very pleasant John. Thank you for accompanying me.”  
  
Just as John had been wondering whether to shake Mycroft’s hand and just what the hell did you do when you’d had a date with a bloke that blatantly wasn’t going to end in a drunken fumble in the back of a club? He was rather taken aback when, completely unexpectedly, Mycroft took John’s hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of John’s knuckles. The rather antiquated gesture left a rather fuzzy warm feeling in the pit of John’s stomach that he felt too dazed to analyse. He simply stood there, dumbstruck, as Mycroft murmured his farewells and stepped back into the car. As it pulled away and disappeared round the corner, John had simply stood on the pavement not moving as he watched it leave.  
  
Neither of them saw Sherlock stood at the window that looked out onto Baker Street, watching proceedings with undisguised curiosity.

 

  
~*~

  
Mycroft had just returned from his weekly meeting with the Prime Minister when he heard the commotion in his outer office and put away the confidential papers that he was currently perusing. The only person who would cause such a commotion in this building would be Sherlock. Sure enough less than a minute later his younger sibling flounced into his office, coat flapping behind him as usual.  
  
“Sherlock, to what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
“What are you playing at with John?”  
  
“Straight to the point I see. Do you never see the need for social niceties, I know that Mummy taught you them. Would you like to clarify your meaning?”  
  
“You don’t need me to clarify my meaning Mycroft or are you getting slow in your old age? I’ll spell it out for you because I don’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. Why have you suddenly taken an interest in John? Why are you dating him? Have you got some sort of agenda?”  
  
Sherlock slumped himself into one of the leather chairs once he’d finished speaking, swinging his legs up to rest on the edge of Mycroft’s desk and ignoring the pointed glare his actions earned him.  
  
“My my Sherlock, it almost sounds as if you care for the good doctor.”  
  
Mycroft’s words were met with a look of pure scorn from Sherlock. “Don’t try to patronise me Mycroft.”  
  
“I’m not patronising you Sherlock. I really do dislike the way that you insist on presuming the worse of me all the time. John Watson is very much his own man yet you are incredibly possessive of him. He’s not your toy Sherlock.”  
  
“I’m aware of that,” Sherlock practically snarled. “I don’t want him hurt because of your scheming and manipulations; he deserves better than that.”  
  
““Now there’s the little brother that I remember. You insist that you don’t care about anybody but that sociopath label doesn’t fool me, I know you too well. You care about John Watson, don’t deny it.”  
  
“I’m not denying anything. Yes, I care about John Watson; he’s the first person I have been able to truly call a friend.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked it, rolling his eyes as he did so. “Bored now.”  
  
“Of course you are. Try not to disturb my staff too much as you leave.” He looked up as Sherlock swung his legs off the desk but didn’t move. “Was there something else you wanted little brother?”  
  
“Have a care Mycroft. If you hurt John then I will never forgive you. Never.”  
  
With that, Sherlock stood and stalked out of the room leaving a pensive Mycroft sat at his desk.

 

  
~*~

  
It was rather strange being the seductee (was that even a word?) rather than the seducer John found. And Mycroft was definitely the one doing the seducing. It was a rather heady experience to be honest; John didn’t think that he’d ever been the recipient of such focused attentions before. Mycroft had been charm itself for all of their encounters. Then there had been the presents, totally unexpected presents that, nevertheless, made John feel as though Mycroft actually wanted him. The first time he had received one of the gifts he hadn’t really known what to make of it; he’d never received gifts from somebody he’d been dating when it hadn’t been his birthday or Christmas. He had been concerned momentarily that Mycroft was trying to buy him, but the gifts (and there had been some expensive gifts) had been completely contrary to the fact that Mycroft hadn’t pushed for things to move at a speed that John was uncomfortable with. That had been a huge relief as John had been wary about getting involved, his experience with Sarah having burnt him badly.  
  
And the dates themselves ... John hadn’t expected to have so much fun, nor had he expected them to be so varied. They could be rather hit and miss depending on Mycroft’s schedule and which country was threatening to start a war that particular week. It had been four weeks since that first date and in that space of time, Mycroft hadn’t cancelled any dates but they had rescheduled four times. They had been varied too. He didn’t know what he had expected but it certainly hadn’t been Mycroft producing tickets to one of the English Six Nations matches along with the admission that Mycroft had played rugby when he was younger. There had been a trip to the theatre, an evening concert on the Southbank and numerous dinners and lunches in various locations around the city.  
  
Then there had been the, well as horrifically juvenile as it sounded but it was the best way to describe them, make-out sessions in the back of Mycroft’s car. Just like the one they had been indulging in. John didn’t think that he’d done this much kissing, or enjoyed it as much, since he was a teenager. The first time that Mycroft had kissed him, he had literally gone weak at the knees. It was refreshing to not be the one in charge, to not be the dominant one for once. Mycroft obviously knew what he wanted but didn’t force a response out of John, he coaxed it, extracting mewls and whimpers out of John that, if he’d paid any attention to them, would have embarrassed him horribly. He didn’t notice them however, too overwhelmed by sensation to care about anything. As much as he enjoyed the kissing though, he couldn’t help but want more. John pulled back from where he had practically been sprawled across Mycroft.  
  
“Not that this isn’t nice but I hope we’re going to progress from making out like teenagers in the back of your car at some point or other.”  
  
Mycroft simply gave that enigmatic little smile of his, his eyes hungrily drinking in the sight of John with ruffled hair, passion-glazed eyes and lips slightly swollen from Mycroft’s kisses. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

 

  
~*~

  
“Sherlock? A word please before you disappear.”  
  
The man in question turned in the doorway and arched an eyebrow at the DI. “What exactly did you want to talk about? I’ve just solved the case for you. I refuse to do the paperwork; surely one of your incompetent minions can do that for you.”  
  
“They’re not incompetent and they’re not minions. Will you please come in and sit down rather than hovering in the doorway, I don’t want everybody to hear this.”  
  
His curiosity peaked, Sherlock did as asked. John wasn’t finishing his shift for another couple of hours at least which left plenty of time for Sherlock to go and collect the new skin samples from Bart’s and still pick up Chinese on the way home for dinner. Although, it Lestrade didn’t say anything in the next thirty seconds then he was leaving regardless. Then Lestrade uttered the words that would guarantee Sherlock stayed.  
  
“It’s about John.”  
  
“What about John? Nothing’s wrong with him is there? His shift doesn’t finish for at least another two hours. It can’t be Moriarty.”  
  
“Calm down will you Sherlock. Nothing is wrong with John that I know of. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock agreed, not really knowing where the detective was going with this. When no questions were forthcoming he became impatient. “Well? Are you going to ask me any questions? Only I have other places to be.”  
  
“This new bloke that John’s seeing, what do you know about him? What’s his name? What does he do?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking? What business is it of yours?”  
  
Lestrade gave a bark of laughter. “It may have escaped your notice Sherlock, but while you may only tolerate me for access to cases, John and I are actually friends; we go for a pint every week. I want to know this blokes name so that I can run a background check, make sure that he’s not some psychopath. Now, do you know his name?”  
  
“Yes I do and there’s no need to run a background check. The man John is seeing is Mycroft Holmes, my older brother.” Sherlock’s mouth made a moue of disgust as he said that name. “He won’t turn up on any background check but rest assured, he’s not a psychopath.”  
  
“Your brother? Christ, I didn’t even know that you had one. And Mycroft? God, what were your parents thinking when they named you? No, don’t answer that. Ok, you said he won’t show up on a background check so I’ve got one last question for you; is he good enough for John? He’s not going to hurt him is he? The last thing we want is a repeat of that whole Sarah debacle and John deserved to be happy.”  
  
“You’re right, he does.” Sherlock stood and made his way over to the door.  
  
“Sherlock! Answer the question. Is he good enough for John? Will this brother of yours hurt him?”  
  
Sherlock’s back stiffened and his voice was quiet as he responded.  
  
“I don’t know.”


	2. Chapter Two

It had been a struggle actually letting go of John once they had reached Baker Street. They had had yet another enjoyable dinner, this time at Levantine near Regents Park. John had insisted that they dispense with the car and walk back to Baker Street. Mycroft had struggled to keep his hands at his sides, to stop himself from reaching out and taking hold of John’s hand; there was a difference between being seen on dates (which could easily be passed off as something different should that prove necessary) and public displays of affection. The decision was taken out of his hands, literally, when their hands brushed against each other and John took the lead, tangling their fingers together and squeezing gently at Mycroft’s small smile. When they had reached 221b, John had paused once he’d fished his keys out of his pocket before he stretched across the space between them to press a kiss against Mycroft’s cheek, blushing brightly as he did so.  
  
“Thank you ... I really enjoyed myself.”  
  
“The pleasure was all mine John.”  
  
Mycroft used the grip that he had on John’s hand as leverage to tug him into Mycroft. From there, it was simple to tilt John’s chin and press a kiss to his lips. John literally melted against him, leaning fully against Mycroft as his lips were devoured as the kiss grew steadily more passionate. Mycroft encouraged it, enjoying the solidity of John against him. By the time that Mycroft allowed John out of his embrace, the younger man’s lips were reddened and his eyes slightly glazed.  As he watched John climb the steps to 221b, Mycroft didn’t think that he’d wanted anybody as much as he had John Watson. They both wanted more, they had both admitted to wanting more but with Mycroft having to leave the country in the early hours of the following morning, they had decided that this wasn’t the right time to take things further.  
  
Mycroft had had dalliances over the years, fairly frequent dalliances at that, never anything serious – more sexual encounters than relationships – but he had certainly never found himself contemplating a serious relationship before he’d had sex with anybody. He’d certainly never have done any of the leg work that he had with John. Not that he regretted that; it had been thoroughly enjoyable. He simply couldn’t fathom what it was about the good Doctor that made him irresistible to Mycroft; that made the government official want to keep him.  
  
He had never felt the need to put in this amount of work for relatively little return. That wasn’t to say that there was nothing in it for him; John was responsive and incredibly giving, reciprocating to any advances that Mycroft made. He was incredibly hesitant about making advances himself, so much so that Mycroft was struggling with the decision as to whether or not he should investigate John’s relationship history.  
Normally, the people that Mycroft had dalliances with were predominantly men and they were all carefully hand-picked for their discretion and their compliance with Mycroft’s rules. Generally, dates consisted of dinner followed by sex in an anonymous hotel room booked by A. If he was particularly compatible then one “date” could turn into a second but there had only been one person who had merited a third “date”. Mycroft was adamant that things consisted of nothing more than that; he didn’t want the danger of attachments. He wasn’t like Sherlock; he needed to indulge his carnal appetites on a semi-regular basis. Thus, he found himself slightly bemused and a little concerned that he was four weeks of dating into what could be termed a relationship with John Watson, there was no sign of sex yet but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. He was enjoying himself and he was actually happy.

  
~*~

  
As the house lights came up, John and Mycroft joined the crowds starting to stream out of the main auditorium. Mycroft had only returned to England that very morning and had immediately been closeted in meetings at Downing Street but even such a busy day following travelling hadn’t been enough to dissuade him from his evening plans. The offer of a box at the Royal Opera House was not one to turn down, particularly when the performance in question was that of Puccini’s masterpiece Tosca. He had dispatched A with a request to ensure that his formal tuxedo was perfectly pressed and to also buy suitable formalwear for John and have it delivered to Baker Street. To some people it might seem to be overkill but both Holmes brothers had been brought up by Mummy to always dress up and make an effort when attending the theatre whether it was for a play, a concert or an indeed an opera. She had maintained that the performers were working hard and making an effort so that the audience enjoyed themselves so the least they could do, as an audience, was make an effort in what they wore. Mycroft still followed this maxim and absolutely abhorred people who turned up in jeans or trainers. When he collected John, he was more than satisfied with the clothing that A had chosen and John looked incredibly smart, the formalwear highlighting his looks in much the same way as his RAMC uniform had.  
  
They had dined at a discrete table in the Floral Bar with other concertgoers during the intervals and Mycroft had been delighted at John’s admission that although this was his first experience of a fully-staged opera, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had smiled to himself as John had leant into him, his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and resting a hand on Mycroft’s thigh, during the two famous arias Vissi D’Arte, Vissi D’Amore and E Lucevan Le Stelle as well as during the Act One Finale, feeling the shivers that went down John’s spine at the latter two when he slipped his arm around John’s shoulders. Despite his love of the opera, he had found the man at his side much more captivating and he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the look of wonder on John’s face. As they threaded through the crowds and out onto Floral Street where the car was waiting, Mycroft started as John’s hand slid into his, tangling their fingers together, smiling in response as John looked up at him with a smile.  
  
“Would you like to be taken back to Baker Street?”  
  
Mycroft hoped that he had hidden the longing in his voice but he wasn’t completely sure that he had been successful. Nevertheless, something seemed to have changed tonight; there seemed to be a frisson of tension in the atmosphere that hadn’t been there before. He had just returned from several days in Italy dealing with something that, in England, would take merely a few hours but considering that the relevant politicians had been chosen either for their looks or for the fact that they’d probably done a lap-dance for Berlusconi it had taken considerably longer. This was on top of a further few days that had been spent in a country that he was unable to name that had recently been swept by a people’s revolt and had required assistance from the British Government. The time away seemed to have changed something in his relationship with John. Maybe there was some truth to the old quote ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. That wasn’t to say that they had been completely without contact; emails, texts and even the odd phone call had flown backwards and forwards across the continent.  
  
“Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could go back to yours?” As he finished speaking, John darted his tongue out to flick across his bottom lip.  
  
Mycroft suppressed the moan that threatened to rip itself from his throat. Really, John Watson was incredibly tempting without even trying. Instead, he ushered John into the car and followed him in, giving the instructions to the driver as to their destination. As he sat back next to John, he pushed the button that would ensure they had the privacy that they desired. As soon as they knew that the driver could no longer see them (or hear them for that matter), they unconsciously found themselves back in the position that they had been in the theatre; John tucked into Mycroft’s side, his hand high up on Mycroft’s thigh and one of Mycroft’s arms banded tightly around his waist. John tilted his head up slightly so that he could start planting kisses along Mycroft’s jaw-line and down his throat until his access was blocked by Mycroft’s collar. Mycroft slid his unoccupied arm across his body to grasp onto John’s hip, using his grip to manipulate John, coaxing him until he was straddling Mycroft’s lap. They were both so engrossed in each other that they didn’t spare a thought for the safety of their position given the fact that they were in a moving vehicle. They both moved at the same time, their mouths meeting in the middle with low moans escaping from both men. One of Mycroft’s hands slid up to cradle the back of John’s head, the other remaining on his hip while John’s fingers fiddled with the soft hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck. The kiss lasted for the entire journey, the only pauses being when they were desperate for breath.  
  
It was the work of mere seconds to dismiss the driver upon arrival at Mycroft’s flat but once inside, John’s hesitance made an appearance. He was still responding to Mycroft’s advances but he was more passive, simply accepting them. This wasn’t what Mycroft wanted and there was obviously something that he had missed.  
  
“John? Is something the matter? Have I done something?”  
  
“No you haven’t done anything but there is something you need to know.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair and then huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush, I don’t see the point. I’ve never had sex with a man before. I’ve done just about everything else but I’ve not gone all the way before. I should have told you before but it’s never really come up. I want this but I understand if it changes things.”  
  
“It doesn’t change anything. We’ll take this as slow as you want.” Mycroft wasn’t sure who was more surprised by his words; him or John.  
  
Those words seemed to change everything. They pretty much stumbled through the flat leaving a trail of formal jackets, shoes, socks and bow ties behind them until they reached Mycroft’s bedroom. However, once they were there, John stopped Mycroft’s fingers before they could start unbuttoning his shirt and looked uncharacteristically nervous.  
  
“Look, it’s not exactly ... pretty. I’m not what I used to be.”  
  
“My dear John, you presume that I am attracted to appearances alone.”  
  
John snorted. “Oh please, like looks don’t come into it. You know you’re attractive; that’s apparent in the way that you act. You can walk into a room and I can guarantee that half of the occupants will turn and stare at you. Admittedly, a lot of that is this aura of power you have but your looks play a major part Tonight at the opera, you walked into that bar and pretty much every single eye in the room was on you, I could have been starkers and they wouldn’t have even noticed.”  
  
“You sell yourself short John. Do you really think that I would have spent the last month or so ...”  
  
“Seducing me?” John suggested helpfully.  
  
“Seducing?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t convinced that seducing was the word that he would have used. He would probably have gone for charming.  
  
“Yes, seducing. Rather successfully as well I might add.” John’s lips quirked up in a small smile.  
  
“Well since you seem so convinced about it, do you really think that I would have spent this amount of time seducing you if I didn’t want you? Appearances aren’t the be all and end all. I should know this better than most, having Sherlock as my sibling,” this was said with a hint of self-deprecation, making John relax. “Yes, I find you incredibly attractive and I am by no means the only person but it wasn’t simply your looks that attracted you to me, it was everything else.”  
  
John still didn’t look completely convinced and Mycroft wanted to wipe that doubt from his mind.  
  
“Let me prove it to you.” Mycroft’s words were practically purred into John’s ear as his fingers started undoing John’s buttons once more.  
  
“Are you planning on telling me as you get me naked? Surely that’s a complete contradiction to what you’ve just been saying.”  
  
John arched into Mycroft with a gasp as he received a playful slap on his arse as chastisement for his words.  
  
“Perhaps. But it’s much more enjoyable don’t you think?”  
  
John didn’t bother to respond, and instead slid his fingers up Mycroft’s still-clothed chest and pulled him down into a kiss that was downright dirty, full of tongue, as he scrabbled with the buttons of Mycroft’s chair, not really caring that half of them ended up on the floor along with the incredibly expensive shirt. Mycroft’s shirt was followed by John’s, two pairs of trousers and two sets of underwear before John was tumbled back onto the bed. Mycroft had never really bothered with foreplay before; he had done it but it had been a necessity rather than something that he wanted to do. Until now. John’s golden skin had a faint blush all over and Mycroft was struck with the desire to explore every single inch of him. By the time that he had finished, having explored every single inch of John with hands, lips and tongue, John’s skin was heated and completely covered with a delectable flush, his eyes at half-mast with pleasure as he squirmed and writhed under the older man. Mycroft didn’t think that he’d ever seen anything quite so tempting as John Watson spread out on 300 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. He was literally there for the taking and Mycroft had every intention of taking him.  
  
John blushed furiously as he felt Mycroft’s intense gaze on him but he struggled to find somewhere to look that wasn’t Mycroft’s naked chest. The breath was then literally stolen from his chest as Mycroft swooped down and took control of his mouth in a kiss that was as possessive as it was passionate. Just when he thought his lungs were about to explode, Mycroft’s mouth left his and moved to his jaw-line and his chest before moving further down his body. He wriggled slightly, suppressing the urge to laugh as hands skimmed down his sides, moaning loudly as Mycroft licked a broad swathe along the crease at the top of John’s thighs. At the back of his mind he was slightly mortified by the noises that were escaping him and the volume of said noises but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. His legs spread wider of their own accord as Mycroft peppered his inner thighs with gentle nips and kisses.  
  
Hands scrabbled on Mycroft’s shoulders as the older man finally licked a thick stripe up the underside of his cock before engulfing it in his mouth. Mycroft pulled back long enough to slick his fingers with lube before taking John’s cock back into his mouth as he grazed his fingers over John’s perineum. He continued licking and sucking as he inserted one finger into John, distracting him as he slowly stretched him, adding fingers when he felt John was ready and steadily preparing him for his cock. He felt John’s hands spear into his hair with one particularly strong suck before pulling away, not wanting John to come until Mycroft was buried in him.  
  
Mycroft twisted his fingers, unerringly searching out that bundle of nerves and stroking over it until John was lifting his arse, bucking as though he was trying to take Mycroft’s fingers further into his body, keening his pleasure as he did so. This was what Mycroft had wanted. This. John Watson falling apart at his hands. He was hovering over the doctor’s slighter form, tracing the edges of John’s scar with his tongue as John writhed on Mycroft’s fingers. Long slender fingers that played John’s body as though it were a finely tuned instrument.  
  
“Oh fuck! Fuck! Mycroft, more.”  
  
Mycroft clamped his unoccupied hand around John’s hips, stilling John’s movements without removing his fingers as he looked straight into slightly glazed eyes. “Do you know what you’re saying John?”  
  
“Yes, you’re good but I’m not that far gone yet. I want you to fuck me.”  
  
Thighs spread obscenely and looking thoroughly debauched, Mycroft had absolutely no intention of denying John what he was asking for. He reached out with one hand and snagged the small packet lying on the bedside table, fumbling slightly as he opened it and rolled the condom onto himself before removing his fingers from John and coating his condom-sheathed cock with more lube. That done, he lay on his back and coaxed John into straddling his hips so that Mycroft’s thumbs rested on John’s hipbones while his fingers were splayed over John’s pert and, quite frankly, delicious arse. Thankfully, John caught on to what he wanted and raised himself on his knees, hands resting on Mycroft’s chest as support.  
  
John lowered himself slowly, his hands clinging to Mycroft’s shoulders in an almost vice-like grip, taking more of Mycroft into himself with every breath. Both their bodies were slick with sweat and they were breathing heavily as John slowly inched down Mycroft’s cock, sheathing the older man in his body. Only when his arse was pressed into the cradle of Mycroft’s hips did John open eyes that had slid shut of their own accord, revealing pupils that had blown so much there was only a thin rim of blue showing around them. John started to rock his hips incrementally, gasping at the sensations the action produced. Slowly, as John got more comfortable with the feeling of Mycroft inside him, he tensed his thighs and started to move himself up and down, aided by the hands gripping his hips, riding Mycroft’s cock.  
  
For his part, for all the men that he had slept with, Mycroft had never experienced anything like this. John was tight and hot and just perfect around him, clenching around Mycroft almost unconsciously and the sight of John riding his cock was going to be permanently etched into Mycroft’s brain. John’s throat was bared as he arched his back to ensure deeper penetration and that Mycroft raked across his prostate with every thrust.  
  
“Stroke yourself.”  
  
John did so, his rhythm faltering somewhat as he was overcome by the dual sensations. Mycroft took over, using his grip on John’s hips as leverage, raising his hips as John lowered himself and driving himself into John. It wasn’t enough though. Mycroft lifted John off his cock, studiously ignoring John’s whimper of discontent as he did so, and pushed John down so that he was lying face-up on the mattress. It was the work of minutes to push John’s legs up towards his chest and then re-sheath himself in John’s tight heat. Mycroft started to move in and out of John with slow and steady strokes, wringing small, indecipherable sounds from John and nearly folding him in half with every movement. Mycroft’s hand snuck in between them, wrapping around John’s hand that was already wrapped around his cock, and stroking John’s cock in time with his thrusts. John wailed, literally wailed, as he came, spilling himself over their joined hands and John’s stomach. Even as John’s body was still writhing underneath him as a result of his own release, Mycroft continued thrusting into John’s body, feeling it tighten and convulse around him. The feeling was overwhelming and he only managed a few more thrusts before he was lost in his own orgasm, slumping down over John’s body.  
  
It was with considerable effort that Mycroft pulled out of John and moved into the adjoining bathroom to dispose of the used condom and retrieve a damp washcloth. John was limp on the bed when he returned, unmoving with heavy-lidded eyes until Mycroft wiped him clean and he mewled slightly as the cloth brushed over his over-sensitised, heated skin. Tossing the cloth over the side of the bed, Mycroft lay back on sheets slightly damp with sweat, wrapping himself around John before pulling the blankets up over them. Making an impulse decision, he reached for the phone that was always at his side and although he infinitely preferred phone calls over texting, he texted A with a request that she cancel his breakfast meeting and ensure that the rest of his meetings were pushed back so that his first appointment was at eleven am. He had never done that before, and even as he pushed send there was a flicker of guilt inside him before he resolutely pushed it away. He was hopefully going to have plenty of other mornings waking up with John Watson in his bed but there was only ever going to be one first morning. Placing his phone back on the bedside table, he rolled onto his back, John following the movement of his body, pressing a kiss against Mycroft’s collarbone then snuggling his face into the crook of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft stayed awake for a long time until John’s breathing slowed down and evened out signifying that he had fallen asleep. Only then did he take the risk of whispering the words that he had bitten back earlier.  
  
“I think I’m in love with you.”

  
~*~

  
John smiled to himself as he walked up the stairs to the flat and heard Mycroft’s voice. It had been a good shift at work and now he was coming home to find that his lover had come to pay a visit. He sped up slightly only to pause before he opened the door as Sherlock’s voice rang out through the wood. Obviously neither man had heard John coming up the stairs. He froze and his blood ran cold at Sherlock’s words, so cold and seemingly unfeeling.  
  
“What exactly do you think you’re playing at with John, Mycroft? You never keep your little paramours this long. How long has it been this time? Three weeks?”  
  
“Six actually.”  
  
John fumbled for the banister, not quite believing what he was hearing.  
  
“Six weeks. My my, I would have thought that you’d be bored by now. You normally show them the door after you’ve slept with them once, twice if they’re particularly good. Have a care Mycroft. When you do eventually move onto your next conquest, make sure you let him down gently. I don’t want to lose my flatmate because of your predilections.”  
  
That was it. John couldn’t listen anymore. Not caring how much noise he was making he fled down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, ignoring the fact that he was leaving the front door wide open or that Mrs Hudson had heard the commotion and was stood on the doorstep calling out after him. At the back of his mind, he clocked the black car appearing round the corner so Mycroft and Sherlock had heard him leave but he didn’t care. Instead, he swung into the tube station and headed blindly south. His mind was racing as to where he could go, where he could use as a bolthole while he gathered his thoughts. Sarah’s was simply out of the question following their acrimonious break-up, Harry had fallen off the wagon again so that was a no go which left him one option. Lestrade’s it was, and hopefully some sensible advice.

  
(~*~)

  
Back inside 221b, the Holmes brothers turned to look at the door to the flat as they heard the clatter of footsteps rushing down the stairs followed by Mrs Hudson’s worried cries.  
  
“What the hell was that Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice had a hint of steel running through it despite its apparent calm but when he turned to face his younger brother his fury was written all over his face. That fury disappeared swiftly when he saw the look of shock on Sherlock’s face. “You didn’t know that he was there.”  
  
“Of course I didn’t know he was there!” Sherlock had already started pacing up and down, raking his hands through his hair. “If I had known he was there do you honestly think I would have brought it up?”  
  
The two brothers were a study in contrasts; Sherlock pacing up and down, his agitation obvious while Mycroft sat in John’s chair, the only clues to his distress being the slight slump of his shoulders and the white-knuckled grip that he had on his umbrella. He looked up as Sherlock started talking again.  
  
“I know that everybody thinks that I’m cold and unfeeling and that’s the truth unless it’s John. He’s different. He makes me care about him and I can’t understand why, it’s not logical, but I can’t bring myself to care. Moriarty said that he would burn the heart out of me and somehow, John Watson has become my heart. It’s inexplicable particularly when you consider that I’m not in love with him.”  
  
“And that is where we differ little brother because I am in love with John Watson.”  
  
“Love?”  
  
“Yes Sherlock, love. That thing that you scorn yet the rest of the world aspires to. Ironic is it not that the most unassuming of men somehow became the heart of both Holmes brothers. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find John.”  
  
Mycroft made it to the bottom of the stairs before he heard a voice behind him and turned to see Sherlock silhouetted at the top of the stairs.  
  
“He’ll be at Inspector Lestrade’s. I’m sure you already have the address.”

  
~*~

  
Once he’d got off the tube and on a train heading towards Dulwich, he texted Greg Lestrade, feeling guilty that he was showing up on the man’s night off – the least he could do was give him some warning. He didn’t give any details but asked if he could crash for the night; tomorrow he could rearrange a few shifts at the hospital and spend a few nights sleeping in the on-call room. There was no way that he could face going back to Baker Street right now.  
  
By the time John made it to Greg’s house he had made a couple of stops to first pick up take-away and then to pick up beer. He’d spill his guts, hopefully get Greg’s advice and then temporarily block out the evenings events with alcohol. Greg had obviously been waiting for him because the door swung open as soon as he opened the gate. Once he was inside, it was barely a minute between toeing his shoes off and removing his coat before he was handed an ice-cold beer. Greg was obviously happy to let John take his time and talk when he was ready. John had eaten his share of the Indian and was halfway through his second beer when he started talking. He spilled everything that had happened, the words literally spilling out of his mouth, and once he’d finished, drained his beer. Greg sat there in silence, taking everything in and mulling it over while John went and got two more beers. He just pulled them out of the fridge when he hear a shout of “Damn it Sherlock!” from the living room. Making his way back into the living room he handed a beer to the older man.  
  
“What’s Sherlock done now?”  
  
“More what he hasn’t done. Look, don’t kill me, but when you started dating Mycroft I asked if Sherlock knew who he was because if he didn’t then I was going to run a background check.”  
  
“Greg!” John’s tone was torn between laughing and scandalised.  
  
“Look, I’m not going to apologise. I’d do it for any of my friends. After that cow dumped you I wanted to make sure that you didn’t rebound into the arms of a psychopath. Anyway, Sherlock said that this bloke was his older brother and not to bother with a background check because he wouldn’t turn up on any of them.”  
  
“Is there a point to this mate?” John smothered a grin at this show of over-protectiveness from his older friend.  
  
“I’m getting there you cheeky sod. Shut up! Anyway, look I asked Sherlock if this guy was good enough for you and if he could promise that you wouldn’t get hurt.”  
  
Greg wished that he hadn’t said anything when John’s quiet question rang through the room. “What did Sherlock say?” There was a long pause. “Greg! What did he say?”  
  
“He said ‘I don’t know’”.  
  
John’s laugh was bitter. “Will wonders never cease; the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know the answer to something. Well, I did get hurt and he contributed to that. If he knew this was what Mycroft was like why didn’t he warn me? Why did he let me get involved with Mycroft, why did he let me run the risk of getting emotionally attached?”  
  
“And are you emotionally attached?”  
  
“What the hell do you think?” John practically shouted. “Oh damn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Yes, I’m emotionally attached. I’m in deep.”  
  
“How deep?”  
  
John’s response was quiet when it came. “I think I’m in love with him.”  
  
“Fuck.” Greg honestly didn’t know how to respond. He wouldn’t say that he was emotionally stunted to say the least but he wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of bloke. Instead he went for school-yard humour. “I can always beat him up for you; make sure that no-one can trace it back to me.”  
  
“You wouldn’t get anywhere near him.”  
  
“What the hell does this guy do? Is he God or something?”  
  
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  
  
Later that night, after attempting to distract John with the Rugby League on Sky and more beer before offering him use of the spare bedroom for the night Greg could hear the younger man tossing and turning in bed, too restless to sleep. When he got up in early hours of the morning to use the bathroom, the light in the spare room was still on and he could hear John moving around. He couldn’t help but curse Mycroft Holmes even though he’d never met him. Greg knew that it had been a difficult decision for John getting involved with Mycroft, especially so soon after being dumped by Sarah, but he had taken a leap of faith and he had been happy. Happier than Greg had ever seen him when he was with Sarah and Greg was hoping to God that it was all some misunderstanding. If it wasn’t, then nothing was going to hold Greg back from giving Mycroft Holmes what he deserved.

  
~*~

  
The next morning found Greg Lestrade pounding heavily on the door of 221b, not giving a damn about the relatively early hour. John had been dressed and off to work by six am and if he was honest, Greg didn’t think that the other man had had any sleep at all the previous night. It was for that reason that Greg was here. It wasn’t exactly the way that he’d envisaged spending his day off but he was damned if he was going to let John get hurt any more than he already had; he deserved better, much better. He’d clocked the black car parked further down the street which meant that Mycroft was going to be there and if he didn’t have a good enough explanation then Greg had every intention of ripping him a new one. And then he’d start on Sherlock. He’d asked the man, he had specifically asked him if that damn brother of his was good enough for John, if he was going to hurt him and the man had been annoyingly non-committal. From what John had relayed to him the previous night, the cruel words that John had been able to remember verbatim, Sherlock had known what Mycroft was like, had known his tendencies yet he hadn’t warned John. After everything John had done for Sherlock, Greg was horrified; he had expected Sherlock to have more decency than that despite his social in-capabilities. He hammered again on the door; he knew the bastards were in there, they were just being bloody awkward. Finally, after he’d been stood hammering away on the door for at least fifteen minutes, the door swung open to reveal a decidedly grouchy Sherlock.  
  
“It’s about time Sherlock, we need to talk.”  
  
“Lestrade, this isn’t the best time; you’ll have to come back later. My brother’s here at the moment.”  
  
“I know your brother’s here and I need to have a word with him as well. Well go on then, I don’t really want to spend my entire day off here.”  
  
Lestrade marched grimly up the stairs behind Sherlock only to be bombarded with questions as soon as he got within the flat itself.  
  
“Where’s John? He came to you last night didn’t he? Why am I asking, of course he did.”  
  
“Sherlock, sit down and shut up.”  
  
Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut and he sat, looking rather surprised both at the order and the fact that he had obeyed. Greg couldn’t help but feel slightly smug.  
  
“Where is John though? Is he okay? He’s not answering his phone.”  
  
“Mycroft is it?” There was a nod and Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again but was cut off before he could actually say anything. “The same applies to you as well. I’m going to do the talking and you two are actually going to listen.” He paused for merely a minute until he had a captive audience, both Holmes brothers waiting avidly for his next words.  
  
“John has gone to the hospital having not slept at all last night. He was devastated when he turned up at my place. What the fuck were you thinking?” He shot a glare at Mycroft when he opened his mouth to speak. “That was a rhetorical question; you’re not supposed to answer it. He won’t be answering his phone because he was trying to get on shift early. He was happy, finally. He was certainly happier than he was with Sarah and then you two had to go and destroy that. What possessed you to have a conversation like that here? What possessed you to have that conversation at all? If you absolutely had to have it then surely there were more suitable places?”  
  
“That was unintentional. John wasn’t supposed to hear anything. It was unfortunate that John heard the conversation and I truly regret that; I didn’t want to hurt him at all. Sherlock ... did have some cause for concern though. I’m not known for my long-term relationships. In fact, I’m not known for doing relationships at all; I tend to indulge in sexual encounters when the need and the desire takes me yet once I have had what I desired, I simply discard them and move onto the next. John has been the first person that I have desired a long-term relationship with, the one person that I have wanted beyond anybody else. John overheard the wrong part of the conversation unfortunately.” There was a pause as Mycroft gathered the courage to admit this to someone that he barely knew. “He missed me saying that I love him. That is the truth Detective Inspector, I am very much in love with John Watson and I can’t bear the thought that I might have lost him.”  
  
“Then you’re very lucky that I don’t think you have. He loves you as well; that’s why this hurt him so much. You sort this out. You apologise to him, you tell him that you love him and you don’t ever think of hurting him again, do you understand? If you hurt him again, I don’t give a damn if you have a ‘minor role in the British Government’ or if you are the bleeding British Government then I will rake you over the coals. Do you understand me?”  
  
He didn’t waste any time turning on Sherlock. “The same thing applies to you. You apologise to John; I know you think apologies are beneath you but this is John we are talking about. John, who has somehow managed to live with you and work with you for over a year without completely losing his sanity. Admittedly he had to be slightly crazy to move in with you in the first place but that guy has put up with a hell of a lot and the least he deserves is an apology. Right, I’m going to try and get back to my day off. Mycroft, I expect you to start trying to resolve this but you’re going to have to start grovelling. John isn’t going to be easily persuaded and I can’t say that I blame him.”

  
~*~

  
“Dr Watson?” John looked up from the charts that he was reading at the admissions desk to see Cathy, the sister that worked on the department. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in your office.”  
  
“A gentleman?” John raised an eyebrow. “Did he give you a name? Is he a member of the Board or something only I have several pressing cases at the moment and Mrs Morgan’s surgery is scheduled for eleven thirty.”  
  
“Sorry John; he didn’t give a name. He’s good-looking though, wearing a three-piece suit. He’s kind of suave actually. There was an assistant but she disappeared fairly sharpish. Oh! He had an umbrella as well.”  
  
Mycroft. John smiled; well it was more of a grimace actually. “Okay, thanks Cathy. Can you chase up those test results for Mr Daniels for me and I’ll go see what he wants.”  
  
John’s footsteps were slow as he made his way to his office, unsure as to whether he was ready to have this conversation. It had been three days since he had overheard the conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft. He had spent the first night at Greg Lestrade’s and then the last two nights sleeping in the on-call room at the hospital. The anger had faded leaving behind a deep-seated hurt. He had had several texts from Sherlock and numerous phone calls from Mycroft, all of which had gone unanswered. When he finally got to his office, he could see Mycroft stood by the window with its frankly awful view of the hospital car park. As soon as he entered his office, Mycroft turned and as Mycroft moved towards a chair, John stayed standing by the door once he had shut it.  
  
“John.”  
  
Was it just him or did Mycroft actually sound relieved? “Mycroft. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”  
  
A barely imperceptible frown crossed Mycroft’s face before he relieved. “A can hold the fort temporarily. As for why I’m here; what did you expect? You won’t answer my phone calls, you won’t reply to texts and Sherlock said that you haven’t been back to Baker Street for three days. We need to talk.”  
  
Mycroft’s facial expression never changed but there was a definite hint of desperation in his voice that made John pause. He had come in here resolved that he wasn’t going to bend to Mycroft’s wishes; they would discuss what had happened but they would discuss it on John’s terms. That slight tremor that he had just heard in Mycroft’s voice had changed everything and John’s resolve faltered.  
  
“You’re right, we need to talk but I can’t talk now. I’m operating on Mrs Morgan at eleven thirty.”  
  
“What time will you be finished?” Mycroft’s tone was hopeful, eager even.  
  
“It’s a straightforward procedure so barring any complications it should be about an hour, an hour and a half.”  
  
“Would you be available for lunch afterwards?”  
  
John hesitated; he wasn’t the only doctor/consultant working this shift, he had no other surgeries scheduled until late afternoon and he would still be on-call even if he did go to lunch as he would have his pager with him. He wasn’t going to be able to avoid Mycroft forever and he was going to have to go back to Baker Street sooner or later.  
  
“Yes, ok. Lunch would be ... nice.”  
  
“Thank you John. A car will be waiting for you in the car park.”  
  
John hid the brief stab of disappointment he felt as Mycroft said that he would send a car, the implication there that he wouldn’t be with said car. He didn’t have time for this; he had to focus on the surgery.  
  
“I’ll see you later then."

  
(~*~)

  
To John’s relief, there were no complications with Mrs Morgan’s surgery and he was out of theatre in just over an hour. He changed out of his scrubs into what he had been wearing earlier and went to tell Cathy that he was going out for lunch. As he walked out into the car park he did wonder if Mycroft or even one of the unmistakeable black cars would even be there. He knew that if Mycroft wasn’t there, then the reason would undoubtedly be an issue of national or international importance but even though John knew that logically, he would still be hurt if Mycroft wasn’t there. He literally sagged in relief against one of the pillars at the entrance to the hospital when he saw the familiar black car waiting out of the way of the ambulance bays. What made it even better was the sight of Mycroft stood next to the car, leaning on his umbrella. When their eyes locked, he honestly didn’t know which of them was more relieved; Mycroft because John’s appearance meant that John was willing to listen to him and John because Mycroft had actually turned up and wanted to discuss what had happened. He watched in amazement as A appeared from within the car and handed a rather large brown paper bag to Mycroft before disappearing back into the car. Mycroft gave a tight smile as John approached him.  
  
“I thought it would be imminently sensible to opt for the simplest option for lunch. I thought we could lunch in Ruskin Park next to the ornamental pond?”  
  
“That would be nice.”  
  
As they walked in silence to the park that was adjacent to the hospital, John thought that this could be construed as any couple walking off for a romantic lunch were it not for the larger than normal distance between them and facts that they were both somewhat tense and the silence was awkward rather than comfortable. Had this happened before John had overheard the conversation between the two Holmes’, John might have had the courage to reach out and take Mycroft’s hand but he couldn’t bring himself to, Sherlock’s words ringing through his head. Once they made themselves comfortable on a bench, he couldn’t help but be touched when he realised that the lunch Mycroft was producing from the brown bag was from his favourite deli further down the road in Denmark Hill. They ate in silence for several minutes, neither of them wanting to break the silence and not knowing how to start, before Mycroft finally made the first move.  
  
“John, I need to explain what you heard the other night. It wasn’t how it appeared...”  
  
John almost groaned out loud in disappointment as his pager chose that exact moment to start beeping insistently. Looking down at the screen he swore loudly, gaining disapproving looks from two passing mothers with young children.  
  
“Mycroft I’m sorry, I really am but I need to get back to the hospital. Mr Daniels has crashed and he needs to be in surgery as soon as possible.”  
  
He looked up in time to catch the brief look of sheer disappointment cross Mycroft’s face before it was hidden behind his mask and a brief stab of guilt hit him. Mycroft had barely had a chance to start talking. Maybe he had got the wrong end of the stick or maybe Mycroft was just trying to manipulate him to get what he wanted. Either way, he wouldn’t know until he had heard him out.  
  
“Look, maybe we can try this again later? Once I finish my shift?”  
  
“The car will be waiting for you in the car park. I’ll book us a table somewhere.”  
  
Even before Mycroft had completely finished the sentence, John was running back to the hospital as fast as he could.


	3. Chapter Three

When he saw John walking out of the hospital that same evening at the end of his shift, Mycroft frowned and swiftly rearranged his plans for the evening, enlisting A to ensure that things were completed in time. He stepped out of the car and he was gratified to see that, despite the slump of John’s shoulders and the exhaustion that was etched into his face, a small smile crossed John’s face as he spotted Mycroft. When John was within two feet, Mycroft reached out to him only to falter at the last minute.  
  
“Is everything ok?”  
  
“Not really.” John gave a wan smile. “We lost Mr Daniels in theatre. I had to break the news to his wife and kids.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Mycroft paused momentarily and swallowed thickly; he didn’t really want to say this but he supposed he should make the gesture. “We don’t have to do this tonight if you don’t want to?”  
  
“No. We need to do this. At the very least, I need to be able to go back to Baker Street and have a decent nights sleep.”  
  
“Very well. I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of changing our plans for the evening; I didn’t feel that this conversation should be held in a public forum.”  
  
“That sounds fine. Thank you Mycroft.”  
  
The space between them in the car and again once they arrived at Mycroft’s flat felt like an impossible gulf; the complete opposite to how they had been merely a few days earlier. A had done a wonderful job given the time that she had had available but neither man could eat much dinner and they had both left more than they had eaten. Unsurprisingly, it was John who had the courage to speak up first.  
  
“Look, can we just get on and talk about this otherwise we’re going to be pushing food around our plates all night.”  
  
“Very well, but we may as well be comfortable while we talk. Shall we adjourn to the living room?”  
  
On other occasions that they had been in this room, there had been barely an inch between them on the squashy monstrosity that Mycroft called a sofa, whereas now they were sat facing each other across the room.  
  
“Where do we start?” John really didn’t want to do this now, not after his shift had gone to hell but they needed to do this now.  
  
“I think it’s perhaps more apt to say where do I start. All I need you to do is listen, preferably with an open mind.”  
  
“Ok.” John sat back in the armchair but it was obvious to Mycroft that his body was thrumming with tension.  
  
“Firstly, as cliché as it is and as much as I despise clichés, I’m afraid there has been a huge misunderstanding. The conversation that you overheard between Sherlock and myself was misconstrued although the fault isn’t yours. Much of the blame can indeed be laid at my feet since I should have been honest with you from the outset. Most of what Sherlock said was true albeit maybe said rather crassly. Then again, Sherlock never has been very tactful; it simply isn’t in his genetic make-up.”  
  
John gave a brief smile at that, acknowledgement of the truth of Mycroft’s words, but Mycroft knew that he still had a considerable amount of explaining to do.  
  
“I don’t do relationships, never have really. Oh, there were maybe two while I was down at Cambridge that lasted longer than most but I still wouldn’t refer to them as relationships. I don’t really know what you would term them; I tend to refer to everything else as dalliances. Despite our many similarities, there are several major differences between Sherlock and myself. The first is the ridiculous notion of his that the body is merely transport. Sherlock may think himself above desire and the need for sexual relations but I consider myself to be very much human and thus not above them. All of the men that I have had sexual relations with and they have been predominantly men, almost to the point of exclusivity, have been carefully handpicked by A, in compliance with a set of rules that I lay in place several years ago. They were subject to thorough background and medical checks and were chosen primarily for their discretion as well as the understanding that our meetings were never mentioned. In many respects, it was similar to engaging the services of a ‘professional’ with the primary difference being that no money ever changes hands. My dates, and I use that term loosely, generally consisted of dinner followed by sex in an anonymous and disgustingly generic hotel room. Occasionally, I would see the same person more than once but on the rare occasion that occurred, there was never a third ‘date’. I never brought them back here and I certainly never considered engaging in a relationship with any of them.”  
  
“What are you saying Mycroft?” John’s voice was soft but had a hint of steel running through it.  
  
“I’m saying that while Sherlock was insinuating that I was looking for my next ‘conquest’ as he put it, the thought had never crossed my mind. The possibility that there would, there could be someone after you never crossed my mind. For the first time ever, I found myself considering a long-term relationship rather than something casual.”  
  
“What changed?”  
  
“You. You changed everything and I don’t even know how you did it. Somewhere along the line, I came to care greatly for you.”  
  
He could see John scrutinising his face, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. Even though, there was something that held Mycroft back from saying those three little words that could change things infinitely. He had been so adamant at avoiding any potential attachments that the depth of his feelings for John Watson had crept up on him somewhat. In truth, it was the fact that he’d never been in this situation before that made him hesitate.  
  
“I have just one question. Why the desperate attempts to get me to talk to you? I admit, I had expected the demands for the right to explain but, to be perfectly frank, I hadn’t expected the grovelling. From either of you.”  
  
“You have truly loyal friends John. Detective Inspector Lestrade was particularly ruthless when he took Sherlock and myself to task for our actions.”  
  
“I might have known that Greg was behind it,” was John’s rueful response before he stood. The look of disappointment on Mycroft’s face, fleeting as it was, was obviously not hidden quickly enough as John’s face visibly softened.  
  
“I’m sorry Mycroft but I need to go home. I’m absolutely exhausted and I need to think things through but I can’t do that here. I accept everything you’ve said but I need to think about what you’ve said. I’ll call myself a cab from the main road.”  
  
Mycroft felt the barest brush of John’s lips against his cheek and the corner of his mouth followed by the click of the front door closing that signalled John’s departure. He had expected this but that didn’t make it any easier. It wasn’t as though things could get any worse (he categorically refused to imagine his personal life without John Watson in it) but equally he hoped it didn’t take John too long to come to a decision. Hopefully, it would be the decision that Mycroft wanted him to reach.  
  
For Mycroft Holmes, the man who avoided attachments like the plague had fallen in love with a certain doctor and his life (and his bed) was depressingly empty without John in it.

(~*~)

  
John took a deep breath as he stood on the doorstep of 221b, preparing himself for what would undoubtedly be a confrontation with Sherlock. At least, there would be a confrontation if Sherlock had his way. He knew that Mycroft was slightly hurt by the fact that he had refused to stay the night but he needed the time to himself to think about what Mycroft had said. Equally, he had every intention of avoiding a confrontation with Sherlock tonight; he was mentally exhausted already not to mention physically and he was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed. The quality of on-call rooms had improved a hell of a lot since he had been a student but when it came down to it, they were still on-call rooms; intended for doctors catching a few hours sleep in between shifts not a decent night’s sleep. At least tomorrow he could have a lie in as he wasn’t expected in for three days. He could put this off for ages, but knowing Sherlock the man already knew that John was outside the door. He just hoped that Mrs Hudson wasn’t awake – normally she’d be dozing in front of the tv by now – as he just couldn’t face making small talk or her questions about where he had been, however well-meaning. Those seventeen steps seemed interminable and, as he had thought, Sherlock was waiting for him as soon as he stepped into the flat itself.  
  
“John.” Sherlock looked wary, as though he was going to take his cues from John himself.  
  
“I can’t do this now Sherlock; not just having spoken to Mycroft. We’ll talk in the morning.”  
  
He didn’t bother to wait for a response, he simply stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom, stripped to his boxers and collapsed onto his bed for the first decent nights sleep he’d had for four days. The problem was, even though he was exhausted, his brain simply refused to turn off. He kept replaying what Mycroft had said to him over and over again. Looking at things objectively now, or as objectively as he could considering the pain at what he had heard had dimmed to a dull ache, he could see that there was no one person that the blame could be placed on. Both Holmes brothers could have thought about their surroundings before they spoke but then equally John shouldn’t have eavesdropped or, if he had, stayed to hear things through. Mycroft had explained and John was very close to forgiving him. Oh, who was he trying to fool, he already had forgiven him or near enough. All he wanted now was a vague apology from Sherlock for his callous words. And for things to go on as they had been before, or even better, move forward from there.  
  
He knew that Mycroft hated texting but he simply didn’t have the energy for a phone conversation right now. He also needed to do this now before he started over-thinking things; if he phoned Mycroft then he just knew that he’d dither forever before actually pushing the ‘call’ button. Instead he typed a quick message and pressed ‘send’ before he lost the nerve.  
  
 _‘Coffee tomorrow? I’m done thinking. JW’_  
  
He had barely put the phone down before it buzzed with a response.  
  
 _‘Eleven am. I shall pick you up at Baker Street. MH’_  
  
There was nothing more he could do now and, quite frankly, he needed a decent nights sleep. Turning his phone onto silent (if Sherlock knew what was good for him he wouldn’t disturb John tonight), he turned off the light and was asleep within minutes.

  
~*~

  
The next morning it was ten thirty am before John woke up, feeling distinctly more human after a decent night’s sleep in his own bed. Panicking slightly at the time (the day that Mycroft was late was the day the world ended), he dived in the shower, luxuriating in the fact that he could have the water as hot as he wanted and could spend as much time as he wanted in said shower without the possibility that someone would be banging on the door, yelling for his assistance. By the time he was out of the bathroom, he had less than ten minutes before Mycroft arrived.  
  
When he went downstairs, the sound of silence struck him and it was apparent that Sherlock wasn’t in the flat at the moment. Who knew where he was, but John was relieved that he would be able to finally sort things out with Mycroft without an audience. Poking his head into the living room he saw that it was in its general state of chaos rather than ‘in the middle of a case’ chaos so Sherlock had probably gone to pester Molly about new body parts to experiment on. He headed for the fridge, even though after being away for four days he wasn’t really expecting to find anything suitable for consumption. He opened the fridge door, blinked in surprise and shut the door again. He hadn’t expected that.  
  
He opened the fridge door again and simply stared at the contents. Was this Sherlock’s attempt at an apology? It certainly seemed like something he would do. Sat in the centre of the fridge were a pint bottle of milk, a pad of butter and a jar of John’s favourite jam. Admittedly, they were surrounded by blood and skin samples as well as oh-god-he-didn’t-even-want-to-know. Thinking that this was all too good to be true he looked in the bread bin and found a small loaf of fresh bread, more than enough for John’s breakfast. All of this pointed to the fact that Sherlock had actually gone shopping. There was the possibility that Sherlock had asked Mrs Hudson to go and do the shopping for him but the fact that there was just enough for breakfast and tea was, to John, proof that Sherlock had braved the much-hated supermarket for him.  
  
He had just finished his breakfast and had put the kettle on for a second cup of tea when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs accompanied by the tap of Mycroft’s umbrella. He automatically prepared a second cup and by the time the kettle had boiled, Mycroft was stood in the doorway. To an outsider, Mycroft looked perfectly calm and collected but there were traces of tension around his eyes and mouth and the hand that gripped his umbrella was slightly white-knuckled.  
  
“Good morning John.”  
  
“Morning Mycroft.” John smiled. “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll bring the tea when it’s steeped.”  
  
Mycroft moved through to the other room as John finished the tea and brought it through. Mycroft had sat in the armchair that was ostensibly Sherlock’s although he infinitely preferred the sofa. Having accepted the cup of tea, Mycroft placed the mug on the coffee table without taking a sip.  
  
“Your message last night implied that you had done your thinking, rather quicker than I had been expecting. Please don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What decision have you come to?”  
  
John moved from where he had been sat in his own chair to sit on the coffee table in front of Mycroft, having moved the as yet untouched cups of tea. “Look, yesterday you were adamant that this whole mess was yesterday but that just isn’t true. I think it’s fair to say that the blame for this is fairly evenly spread. Ok, you could have told me what you told me last night earlier; you knew this was a big deal for me. It was the first relationship that I had had with a man in years and it came not long after the end of my relationship with Sarah. That being said, I don’t want this, whatever it is, to end before it really started.”  
  
“So I’m forgiven then?”  
  
“I wouldn’t say there’s anything to forgive but if it will make you happy then yes, you’re forgiven.”  
  
The reward for John’s words, and he supposed, his forgiveness was that rare smile that only John and a select few others got to see as well as all of the remaining tension draining out of Mycroft’s body. John stood to return to the comfort of his own chair but before he could do so, his wrist was caught in a loose but firm grip. His eyes trailed up Mycroft’s arm before he caught Mycroft’s eyes; glittering with suppressed humour but also with the faintest need for reassurance.  
  
“I have your word that you’ve forgiven me but I’m afraid that I need a bit more reassurance.”  
  
“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”  
  
“I think a kiss will do quite nicely.”  
  
John rolled his eyes in mock annoyance but obliged anyway, leaning in and trying desperately to keep his balance. At the very last minute, just as his lips were about to touch Mycroft’s cheek, the other man turned his head so that their lips met. John froze for several long seconds before, just as Mycroft was about to pull back, he responded to the kiss, his lips becoming pliant under Mycroft’s. With the amount of time that it had taken to respond to the kiss, it surprised Mycroft that John took the initiative to move first; resting his hip and some of his weight on the arm of the chair so that he could press closer without overbalancing. It was uncomfortable for both of them though and John was straining his bad shoulder from the awkward angle so Mycroft did some judicious re-positioning. When he was finally satisfied, John was straddling Mycroft’s lap, his legs tucked up underneath him and his knees pressed to Mycroft’s hips. It was still rather uncomfortable and cramped but infinitely better than before. As he leant in for another kiss, John paused, his mouth a mere inch from Mycroft’s.  
  
“Just so you know, I’m not quite ready to jump straight into bed with you yet.”  
  
“My dear John, I’m afraid there isn’t time. I have a meeting with the Russian ambassador in forty-five minutes.”  
  
John’s giggle, as frankly adorable as it was, was silence briefly by Mycroft’s mouth.  
  
“Besides, the next time that I have you in my bed, you’re not going to be leaving it for a very long time. I am going to claim every inch of you as mine.”  
  
“Possessive much?” John groaned as Mycroft’s teeth scraped gently over the pulse point in his neck.  
  
Mycroft kissed the slightly red mark before trailing his mouth along John’s jaw-line. “Only over people that I care a great deal about.”  
When John smiled softly and almost shyly at those words, Mycroft desperately wanted to say one particular word, especially in one specific phrase but was very aware that this wasn’t the right moment. That would come. Conscious of how close he had been to losing this, Mycroft took his time, imprinting John in his memory. He kissed John softly and gently, encouraging him to respond and tugging him down so that the smaller man was resting his weight fully on Mycroft’s thighs. His tongue lapped at the seam of John’s lips until they parted and their tongues could entwine. Even as one hand scratched through the short hairs at the nape of John’s neck, Mycroft’s free hand was resting at the top of John’s thigh, his fingers curled round to rest at the top of John’s bottom while his thumb rubbed small circles on John’s hipbone. They were so engrossed in each other that they failed to hear the slam of the front door.  
  
“If you absolutely have to maul John like that Mycroft, can you do it somewhere that I can’t see it? Or hear it?”  
  
The two of them pulled apart at Sherlock’s words, John settling back in his position straddling Mycroft’s thighs.  
  
“I must be going anyway.” Mycroft set John off his lap reluctantly and reached for a sheaf of papers on the coffee table. “Sherlock, I have something I want you to take a look at.”  
  
“Not interested.”  
  
“I’ll leave it here regardless.” Mycroft placed the papers back on the table and turned his attention back to John, drawing him close with an arm around the waist. “Will I see you tonight?” He amended his statement as he saw John’s eyes slide sideways to where Sherlock lay on the sofa, ostensibly ignoring them. “A late dinner perhaps?”  
  
“That sounds good.”  
  
“Good.” Mycroft pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips and turned to leave. “I shall phone when I am on my way.”  
  
As Mycroft left, John gathered up the untouched mugs of tea, moving into the kitchen to make fresh with Sherlock trailing behind him.  
  
“You’ve forgiven him then?”  
  
John smiled to himself as he turned the kettle on and reached for the teabags. “There wasn’t really that much to forgive. Mycroft wasn’t the only one at fault ...”  
  
The hint in his words seemed to go unnoticed and the silence stretched between them until Sherlock spoke.  
  
“I bought milk.”  
  
John choked on air and he tried to keep the incredulity from his voice. “Is that your attempt at an apology Sherlock? If it was, then it was missing a crucial word. Sorry.”  
  
“I don’t see why I should apologise; I didn’t do anything wrong. It isn’t my fault you overheard our conversation and everything’s fine now if the fact that Mycroft looked as though he was trying to eat your face is anything to go by.”  
  
John smiled to himself but didn’t speak.  
  
“Oh fine! I’m sorry. There, are you going to speak to me now? I approve of you and Mycroft.”  
  
John’s shoulders released their tension. “Thank you Sherlock.”  
  
“Whatever. But I don’t want to see that again. You might be dating my brother and I can tolerate that but I don’t want to know about it. Now, can we have tea? Lestrade’s got a new case and I’ve appropriated evidence from Anderson.”

  
~*~

  
Seven days later...  
  
It was the first crime scene that John had been to with Sherlock since he’d stormed out of Baker Street but each time it was as though nothing had changed. If he was honest, and he hated himself for thinking it, but he was glad that there had been a murder; Sherlock was starting to become unbearable around the flat with nothing to do. He was feeling slightly redundant though; there wasn’t much that he could do at this crime scene now that all of the initial findings had been taken care of. He was feeling rather smug though; Anderson had given his cause of death (being rather obnoxious and rude to both Sherlock and John in the process) before John had looked at the body upon the request of both Sherlock and Lestrade. He made his own observations, noting several small details that Anderson had missed, which blew Anderson’s cause of death out of the water. When he announced this, Anderson’s face had contorted in fury and he had stormed off, while Sherlock looked highly delighted. John retreated to a safe distance and allowed his mind to wander as Lestrade took over, barking commands at his team.  
  
“He apologised then.”  
  
John turned to see Greg walking over to him, obviously finished delegating tasks to the rest of his team. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and none of Lestrade’s team looked as though they were about to commit murder themselves rather than solve one so Sherlock had obviously flounced off, ignoring the fact that John wasn’t two steps behind him as usual. John’s attention had been caught by the black car that had appeared from round the corner and had parked at a distance from the police tape cordoning off the crime scene, so he hadn’t noticed Sherlock leaving. Not that it made much difference; if Mycroft was here then the probability was that he wouldn’t be going back to Baker Street that night. However, Mycroft could wait while he spoke to Greg; no doubt Mycroft was on the phone to Korea or Russia or somewhere else. Besides, he hadn’t been able to talk to Greg since he had forgiven Mycroft as a result of work, both his and Greg’s.  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Both of them?” Greg grinned slightly sheepishly as John raised an eyebrow in question. “Ok, so I might have had a word with them?”  
  
“A word?” John snorted. “Mycroft gave me the details. Sherlock actually apologised to me. Admittedly, it was Sherlock’s version of an apology but that’s still impressive. Then I got an explanation and an apology out of Mycroft. What did you do? Beat some common sense into them with Mycroft’s umbrella?!”  
  
The mental picture had them both chuckling quietly for several moments before Lestrade sobered up. “Everything’s ok though yeah? Or getting there? You’re happy.”  
  
“I’m getting there at least. Thanks Greg. Drink tomorrow night?”  
  
“Yeah, sounds good. Hopefully this thing will be on the way to being wrapped up by then. I’ll give you a text.” He nudged John with his shoulder before heading back towards Donovan and the forensics squad. “What are you still doing here? I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing than hanging around here.”  
  
John rolled his eyes at Greg’s teasing tone and turned away from the crime scene, towards the black car and the door that opened as he started walking towards it. When he was about six feet from the car Mycroft appeared, unfolding himself from within the depths of the car. He carried on walking forwards, stopping close to Mycroft but not so close that he was invading the other man’s personal space. Did Mycroft want them to keep their relationship a secret? This was one thing that they hadn’t spoken about and he wasn’t exactly sure where he stood. He didn’t want to turn around and see if the Yarders were watching, didn’t know how he should act. Before he could make a decision himself, Mycroft took the decision out of his hands. He stepped forward so that he was so close to John that he was firmly encroaching on his personal space but John made no move, simply staying where he was. Before he could say anything, an arm was wrapped firmly around his waist and Mycroft stooped slightly and captured John’s lips in a firm kiss. John gasped in surprised delight and Mycroft took the opportunity to slide his tongue into John’s mouth. Even with Mycroft stooping slightly, John had to stand on tiptoe for the kiss to work properly, the move meaning that he was leaning into Mycroft’s chest in an attempt to keep his balance.  
  
All of a sudden he remembered that they were, in fact, still at a crime scene and there was a high probability that they were being watched by Lestrade’s team. As he moved to pull back, Mycroft’s hand (the one that wasn’t banded around John’s waist) slipped up to cup the nape of John’s neck and prevent him from moving away. If Mycroft wasn’t fazed by this then neither was John, after all he had nothing to be ashamed of. He stretched up another inch so that he could wrap his arms around Mycroft’s neck and tilted his head slightly to improve the angle of the kiss. They only broke apart at the sound of a very loud wolf-whistle. Rather disgruntled at having a fairly wonderful kiss interrupted, John turned round to see Lestrade’s team looking a combination of shocked and amused while the man himself attempted to look innocent and failed miserably.  
  
“Get a room you two!”  
  
“Yes, thank you Detective Inspector. Haven’t you got a crime scene to take care of and a murder to solve?”  
  
“You’re only saying that because you’re annoyed he bollocked you and Sherlock.” John’s voice was filled with barely suppressed laughter but in truth he was quite touched by Greg’s actions. It meant a lot to him that he had a friend like that.  
  
“Indeed. Are we finished here, only I have better plans for you this evening that distinctly do not involve loitering at a crime scene?”  
  
John barely had time to direct a vague wave in Lestrade’s direction before Mycroft was ushering him swiftly into the car.

  
(~*~)

  
From his spot sprawled over Mycroft’s ridiculously over-stuffed sofa, John had to admit that the other mans plans for the evening had been a damn sight better than loitering around an increasingly chilly crime scene. Mycroft’s flat was the complete polar opposite to Baker Street and the first time John had been here, he had been terrified to touch anything in case he broke it. Even now he could find the opulence and luxury of the large flat overwhelming although he was gradually becoming used to it. When John had asked Mycroft why he had such a large flat when it was ostensibly just him that lived there, Mycroft had answered that both he and Sherlock had inherited a large amount of money from the Vernet estate upon the death of their grandmother while Mycroft had still been at university. He had bought the larger flat at a time when he had the somewhat idealistic hope that his relationship with Sherlock had not been so fractured that his younger brother would deign to live with him. Sadly, it wasn’t to be and Mycroft was left rattling around in a flat that he loved but that was simply too big for one person.  
  
John squirmed slightly to find a more comfortable position that wouldn’t put as much pressure or strain on his bad shoulder. If things went as John had planned, then tonight would be the first night that they had spent together since Mycroft had apologised (well, since they had both apologised but Mycroft had been adamant that the majority of the blame rested with him) and John had forgiven him. Even though that had been the case, John hadn’t wanted them to jump straight back into bed together and instead they had spent as much time together as their individual schedules would allow. John wanted that to change, knew that it had to change and preferably sooner rather than later. He was in this for the long haul. Of that he was positive; he wanted a serious, long-term relationship. That had been painfully obvious in the way that he dealt with the ending of his relationship with Sarah and then how he dealt with the overheard conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock. When Sarah had dumped him, he’d been expecting it and had simply accepted it albeit with a bit of moping. It had been the potential ending of his relationship with Mycroft that had sent him to cry (metaphorically) on his best friends shoulder. He hadn’t been lying to Greg when he had said that he was deep but one thing had changed; he was most definitely in love with Mycroft Holmes. All the things that he had perceived as problems and reasons for Sarah to dump him, weren’t problems when it came to Mycroft. John’s self-proclaimed sociopathic flatmate was Mycroft’s younger brother so he was quite used to Sherlock’s actions and while Mycroft wasn’t overly fond of John’s predilection for throwing himself headfirst into dangerous situations he could keep tabs via his network of spies and CCTV cameras. John had also had a backdated gun permit delivered to the flat. He turned his head slightly so that it was resting on the high quality cotton of Mycroft’s shirt. Once they’d left the crime scene they had made a brief stop to collect their dinner from Orso, one of Mycroft’s favourite restaurants in Covent Garden, before heading straight to the flat. They had eaten in a comfortable silence for the most part, occasionally punctuated with comments on the food and John relished the fact that he was actually eating with his companion. He always felt self-conscious that Sherlock rarely ate with him, even in the flat, and he loved the fact that Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s jibes and indulged in good food, food that he actually enjoyed, once in a while. Secretly, John loved the fact that Mycroft wasn’t all angles like Sherlock, that was more delectable curves and with a bit of a tummy. At the very least, it made him so much more comfortable to cuddle up to when engaging in one of Mycroft’s other indulgences; black and white movies.  
  
Despite the fact that they had decamped to the living room once they had eaten whereupon Mycroft had put on one of his beloved films, John had barely watched a minute of it, distracted by his thoughts. It didn’t take him long to work out what they were watching when the recognisable form of Robert Donat as Edmund Dantes appeared on screen. Once again he barely watched a minute of the action on screen before it was paused. He craned his neck to look at Mycroft only to find the older man staring at him.  
  
“Why did you pause it?”  
  
“Your mind has been elsewhere for the duration; you’ve obviously distracted. Do you wish me to take you back to Baker Street?”  
  
“No! That’s the last thing I want you to do.” Oh sod it. “You could always distract me?”  
  
“Indeed. And how do you suggest I do that?”  
  
“Well you could kiss me for a start.”  
  
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”  
  
With the position that they were in, all either of them had to do was tilt their heads and their lips were brushing against each other. The first few kisses were simply that; the barest touch of two sets of lips brushing against each other but, as much as he was enjoying it, it wasn’t enough for John. He shifted forwards, pressing even closer to Mycroft, a move that ripped a low groan from Mycroft’s throat. Before the kiss turned into more, John pulled back; he knew exactly where he wanted this evening to end (preferably with him wrapped in Mycroft’s arms in that obnoxiously large bed) and he didn’t want to have to stop for even a minute to get there.  
  
“What’s the matter?” As expected, Mycroft wasn’t impressed by the cessation of activities, but he was perhaps overtly worried about pushing John too far too quickly.  
  
“Nothing’s the matter. Honestly,” he leant in and pressed a quick but reassuring kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I just wanted to move somewhere more comfortable.” He rolled his eyes when Mycroft failed to pick up John’s subtle (too subtle) hints. “Mycroft?”  
  
“Yes John?”  
  
“Stop being a gentleman and take me to bed for God’s sake.”  
  
A small smile formed at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “As you wish.”

  
(~*~)

  
Mycroft’s heart had started racing when John asked to be taken to bed and he was amazed that he was able to acquiesce to that request vocally, even if it had been simply three words. Despite the fact that they had talked things through, that explanations had been made and they had both agreed to move forward, there had still been a small part of Mycroft that wondered if any of this would have happened had he spoken up the first time that they slept together. He was determined not to make the same mistake again. He was determined to say those three little words.  
  
He took delight in stripping John of the thick cable-knit jumper that he was wearing, the bulky jumper disguising the compactness of John’s figure. That wasn’t to say that John was tiny; far from it. There was strength in his build and he had retained a significant amount of muscle mass but this was hidden by the bulky jumpers he wore. Mycroft particularly liked the height difference between them; again, John was close to, if not the, average height for a British male but at over six feet tall, Mycroft was significantly taller than him. Those added inches meant that John could easily rest his head on Mycroft’s shoulder or bury his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck while Mycroft liked being able to rest his chin on the top of John’s hair amid the soft tawny-brown locks.  
  
It took Mycroft a long time to strip John of all of his clothing, primarily because he kept getting distracted by every single inch of revealed skin. He refused to let John undress him, insistent that he wanted to make this all about John. When he finally had John naked, he pushed him gently down onto the mattress, drinking his fill as he stripped himself, allowing his clothes to fall to the floor to join John’s before climbing onto the bed and blanketing John’s smaller form with his own body. He dipped his head and kissed John slowly and thoroughly, holding John’s head in between his hands so that he controlled the pace of the kiss, despite John’s attempts to the contrary. He pulled back slightly and smirked at the fact that John’s pupils had already started dilating.  
  
“Do you remember what I said last week? I said that the next time you were in my bed, I was going to claim every inch of you as mine.”  
  
John’s response was a whimpered “Oh fuck.”  
  
“Oh fuck indeed.” Mycroft didn’t normally bother with using vulgarities; there were so many wonderful words in the English language, why use such common and crass ones. Besides, he wasn’t going to fuck John tonight – he was going to make love to him. He leant over John to pull a couple of items out of the drawer, placing them in the pillows for when they were finally needed. He pressed a kiss to John’s temple and whispered in his ear, “I want you to try and stay as still as possible, okay?” John nodded and Mycroft rewarded him with a quick kiss to the lips.  
  
As he had done the first time that they slept together, Mycroft started tracing every inch of John’s body with his lips, hands and tongue, starting with the pulse point in John’s neck. It was heady and intoxicating feeling John’s pulse speed up beneath his lips as a result of his actions. He nipped and suckled at the point until a livid purple-red bruise formed that definitely wouldn’t be hidden by the top of John’s scrubs. John would likely be horrified when he found out but Mycroft didn’t particularly care. He laved the red mark with his tongue, soothing it before he moved on, pressing a kiss to the little hollow at the base of John’s throat. There was no part of John’s torso that escaped Mycroft’s attention; his chest, nipples, ribs, even his navel were all dotted with kisses, hands sliding up his ribs to toy with his nipples even as Mycroft’s tongue flicked in and out of his navel. He squirmed as Mycroft placed teasing little nips alternating with butterfly kisses against the swell of his tummy and his hipbones until Mycroft finally had to resort to keeping his hips pinioned down.  
  
The wanton moan that escaped John’s mouth as Mycroft turned his attention to John’s inner thighs delighted Mycroft (even as it surprised John) and his low, breathy chuckle made John’s cock twitch where it lay flush against his stomach. His legs kept spreading themselves wider and wider of their own accord providing Mycroft with even more bare flesh to taste and mark. He bit into his fist in an attempt to muffle the wails as Mycroft bit down on the crease at the top of his thigh, leaving a passion mark identical to the one that graced his throat. That was nothing though compared to the exquisite sensation of almost too much pleasure as Mycroft crawled back up John’s body brushing against over-sensitised skin and John’s untouched cock.  
  
“Roll over for me.”  
  
John was unable to move himself, too limp with pleasure as Mycroft assisted him, simply sighing when his overheated skin touched cool cotton sheets. He remained still for the most part as kissed and licked his way down John’s spine, not noticing as Mycroft grasped the tube of lubricant from where it lay nestled in the pillows but jerked in surprise when Mycroft’s tongue dipped lower to the dimple at the top of his buttocks. As Mycroft took hold of Mycroft’s cheeks and parted them, he tried to scramble up but couldn’t get the necessary leverage. He couldn’t hold back the squeal as Mycroft’s tongue trailed down the cleft of his arse.  
  
“Mycroft! What are you ...? You shouldn’t be doing that , it’s not hygienic. Myc...”  
  
His words trailed off as Mycroft repeated his actions, allowing his tongue to tease the sensitive skin of John’s perineum. Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle, the sensation of his warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin and making John’s arse clench.  
  
“You were saying?”  
  
“Oh fuck ... don’t stop!”  
  
Mycroft chuckled again, before dipping his head again.  He licked a broad swipe from John’s perineum to his tailbone, before returning to lap at John's hole, his fingers bound to leave marks from his efforts to keep John’s hips still. Mycroft then proceeded to stiffen and slightly furl his tongue before ever so slowly starting to tongue-fuck John. Up until now, John had been alternating that what Mycroft was doing was horrifically unhygienic and pleading for Mycroft not to stop. By the time that Mycroft pulled away for the lubricant John’s protestations and pleas had turned into a string of incomprehensible babble as he pushed backwards eagerly.  
  
His slick fingers traced the rim of John’s hole before he pressed the pad of his index finger against it, watching in fascination as the ring of muscle sucked it in greedily. Two more of Mycroft’s fingers were taken in in the same greedy, eager fashion with Mycroft telling John exactly that, whispering it in his ear as he teased the sensitive skin of John’s ear and just behind it with lips and teeth. He took great delight in taking his time in fingering John open excruciatingly slowly, pressing and rubbing the pad of his middle finger over John’s prostate insistently until John was literally rutting back on Mycroft’s fingers with little huffs of breath and the odd whimper, his cheeks flushed and a light sheen of sweat covering his body. Mycroft could never tire of seeing John like this but it would appear John had other ideas. He pulled himself off Mycroft’s fingers with the most delicious sound and Mycroft had to squeeze the base of cock to stop this whole thing from ending prematurely when he caught sight of John’s reddened and loosened hole, glistening with lube and Mycroft’s saliva.  
  
As he rolled over, John’s hand slapped across the sheets before he managed to fumble the tube of lubricant into his grasp. He coated his fingers with it and smoothed it over Mycroft’s cock, his hand clenching slightly as Mycroft’s teeth latched onto his neck. He guided Mycroft’s cock to his loosened entrance, his breath hitching as Mycroft’s cock caught on the edge of the ring of muscle.  
  
“Condom,” Mycroft choked out, trying desperately not to slam into John’s tight heat as he scrambled for the foil-wrapped packet.  
  
“Mycroft, you’ve just had your tongue up my arse, I think that’s a bit redundant don’t you? Besides, I’m clean and I’m fairly sure you are.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then just get on with it.”  
  
John punctuated his words by rocking his hips down slightly. Mycroft took over from there, steadily pressing into John until his cock was thoroughly sheathed in John’s tight heat. When his hips were flush against John’s slightly upturned arse, Mycroft had to hold still for several moments so that things didn’t end too quickly. This course of action didn’t go down too well with John who clenched his internal muscles around Mycroft’s cock in an attempt to make Mycroft move. It worked but not with the result that John had been hoping for. He started thrusting into John slowly and steadily, angling his hips to ensure that the head of his cock raked across John’s prostate with every thrust. One of his hands was bracing him against the bed while the other was wrapped around John’s calf, pushing his leg further up towards his chest so that Mycroft could thrust that little bit deeper. It was as though John had read his mind because the next minute, John had wrapped his legs around Mycroft’s waist, canting his hips up even further and leaving Mycroft with both hands free to brace himself against the bed. He dipped his head and captured John’s lips in a toe-curling kiss that was interrupted when John ripped his mouth away from Mycroft’s with a cry as Mycroft thrust particularly deep. John’s hands raked across Mycroft’s back and shoulders, encouraging him to speed up his thrusts, something that Mycroft was happy to indulge him in. Before too long, John’s responses had dissolved into incomprehensible babble and Mycroft knew that he was close.  
  
“Stroke yourself.”  
  
John did as he was told, reaching between them to grab hold of his cock and stroking himself awkwardly. The added friction was too much, especially considering how long Mycroft had kept him on the edge, and John’s eyes rolled back in his head as he came with a wordless cry. The feel of John clenching and contracting around him was too much and after barely another two thrusts, Mycroft was spilling himself inside his smaller lover with a barely breathed out “God, I love you.” There was no response and as Mycroft looked down at John’s half-lidded and dazed eyes, he realised that in all probability John hadn’t heard him. He gently pulled out of John and, not wanting to venture from the bed just yet, he cleaned them both as best he could with tissues off the nightstand, before settling them under the covers.  
  
They lay in comfortable silence, John tucked firmly into Mycroft’s side, both of them hovering on the verge of sleep. Despite that though, Mycroft needed to get something off his chest, something that had been eating away at him for several weeks, especially as he didn’t think John had registered what he had said earlier.  
  
“I’m not going to be able to say this as much as you want to hear it but I want you to know that I do love you.”  
  
Mycroft’s nerves didn’t have to wait long for a response as John’s face literally lit up. “I love you too.”  
  
Mycroft hadn’t doubted that that would be the response but he was still relieved to hear the words spoken out loud. He still felt the need to make certain things clear though. “I mean it John, it’s not in my nature to vocalise my feelings but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t there.”  
  
“I know that but that doesn’t matter. If you can say it now and again, I can say it enough for the both of us.”  
  
There was nothing that Mycroft could say to that. All he could was to tuck John even closer into his side and press a grateful kiss to the reddened lips.


End file.
